A Lord of Gold
by Hemofhillppl
Summary: After surviving an assassination attempt, Deep Lord and clan patriarch Hamezaar Wyrmforge is banished from Eartheart, the capital of the Gold Dwarves. Free from the confining protocols of his position, he can begin his quest to recover their ancestral homeland and his enslaved kinsmen. Reviews welcome and rated T for teen for fantasy violence, vulgar language, and adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Welcome to Faerun: a land of magic, monsters, and mystery. Evil lingers in every shadow and good can be found resting in its shade.

Centered in the Shaar Desolation, the Underchasm is a vast tear on the face of the world. Once savanna, desert, and woods the Shaar dried into a sandy waste encircling the Underchasm. This abyss swallowed the Great Rift and is another reminder of the Spellplague. Prior to it, for eleven millennia the Gold Dwarves ruled the rift and everything within a day's ride. No one challenged their rule. Their many enemies plotted and schemed but the Great Rift weathered them all. The Spellplague ended that supremacy and the Underchasm swallowed much of the Shaar and the Great Rift. Underhome, the majestic capital of their realm was decimated.

Still reeling from the destruction, the Dwarves were ripe for invasion. The Dark Elves had lost much to the Spellplague and intended to rebuild through conquest. Level by level, floor by floor the Dwarves were pushed back. Until a surprise strike allowed them to retake the Gates, enchanted gold doors leading to the Underdark. Their lower levels recaptured and secured, the doors remained locked for a century.

Formerly the religious core of their kingdom, Eartheart was a city of temples before inheriting the title of capital. Carved into the cliffs of what has become the East Rift, Eartheart is a masterpiece of engineering. The city was built directly into the walls of the Rift with defensively designed switchback stairways. After the fall of Underhome, the Gold Dwarves were forced to swallow their pride and flee to the surface. The Deep Lords declared their ancestral home tainted beyond redemption. Yet every day Dwarves stare longingly at the golden doors. Enormous, enchanted, and reinforced the road to Underhome remains shut and all travel below is outlawed. Unfortunately, the Gates are not the only way to the Underdark and evil bubbles up from below. This threat is ever present in their minds.

"Good people of Eartheart. You elect your leaders on the council, great elders raised in privilege and power. Once chosen, those leaders remain masked and hidden…out of fear! Every Deep Lord arrives with guards, while you walk the very same streets without them. In our home, the capital of our nation, we fear assassins! I am the patriarch of a great clan! I am a member of our ruling council, a Deep Lord, and I am supposed to hide while you face the same threat?!"

His speeches have grown popular, the masses waiting in anticipation. Opponents watch the Deep Lord with growing frustration while supporters nod their agreement. Armored in elegant yet functional platemail, Hamezaar Wyrmforge is as comfortable as if he wore heavy clothes. His armor is polished to a brilliant sheen, dazzling with jewels and brass fittings. At the center of his chest is his clan emblem, a red dragon chasing its tail encircling a black anvil. The cloak upon his shoulders is ruby red with an identical black emblem on his back, lined with fur. A Morningstar hangs at his belt and a shield is slung over his shoulder.

"My lord, we cannot let you pass," the citadel guard rushes the words. Armored from head to toe with an ax and a massive shield, the Dwarf looks like a cornered animal. "You can only enter wearing the cloak and mask of a Deep Lord."

With mahogany skin and black hair, his gleaming armor offsets both. Hamezaar's beard is neatly trimmed with a pair of braids falling from his mustache and a third from his chin. Gold and silver rings cap the braids in his beard. His golden mask swings about his neck. Hame feels a moment of pity for the guards but remains resolute. He turns to the crowd gathering at the foot of the Citadel, where the Council presides over their people.

"That you or me should be afraid to walk our streets, is a disgrace! For eleven thousand years our ancestors protected the Rift and its people. Once we threw looks of contempt upon the surface, where we live in exile! We look upon our Gold Gates with dread! Our ancestors would be ashamed. We should be ashamed, and I say…NO MORE!"

"AYE!" The crowd roars excitedly, Dwarves stamp their feet and pound their fists on any flat surface nearby. Many of his people chant, "Wyrmforge!" Or they call out to the Soulforger, "Moradin!"

"The people are terrified," the guard snarls. "How dare you use their fear to advance yourself! They may not recognize it but we do!"

"Moradin calls upon us to found new kingdoms and clan lands, to defend existing ones from all threats. Yet we have done nothing to take back our city, nothing to free our kin. It is the duty of every lord and clan patriarch to protect his people. We're no bloody Halflings! We don't hide and hope the danger will pass. The council's duty is to protect our people. The council elected by the people, the council _you_ voted for, that is supposed to serve YOU! YOUR council dithers, while our enemies undermine Eartheart. THIS MUST END!"

The cheering is deafening, the crowd swells with more Dwarves joining it by the second. Dark brown skin and black hair is most common among the citizens of Eartheart. A few grey skinned, white bearded, and bald Duergar pepper the crowd. Even rarer, a towering Human and a small group of light skinned Shield Dwarves create a pocket in the crowd. Near the back, Dwarves fight for position while others lean out of windows that overlook the street. The streets are clogged with them. Constables try to disperse the crowd and accept it's hopeless.

The grinding noise of the switchback, the clanking of gears controlling the stairs ends the cheering. Surprised citizens gasp but the guards are too disciplined to reveal their shock. Tense with disapproval, they open the gates leading to the steps. Cheering erupts from the crowd, thunderous roars and banging quickly joins the clamor.

"You riled up the rabble but only cause they don't know better," a guard curses.

"They cheer because I say what they feel, what they know is true," he replies. Respect for their leaders is deeply ingrained in every Gold Dwarf from birth. The reverence and respect is reinforced at every stage of their lives. Although bordering on subservient, the Gold Dwarves are no fools. Hamezaar's words echo what many feel and fear. They might not say it but that did not mean they were blind to it.

"Nice speech," Captain Yerdan sneers. His Druegar friend is also the captain of his guard. With skin so dark it appears black; Yerdan Ironcast will never be mistaken for a Gold Dwarf. Rejecting standard Dwarven practice, his only armor is a chain shirt beneath a black vest completed by matching trousers. His hands rest upon the hand axes in his belt.

"Thanks," Hamezaar ignores his dripping sarcasm. "…and yes I drank my potion."

"About bloody time, you think the rest of the council isn't bloated with them?"

"Beware the council," his other companion warns. Berund Oozesmasher has spent his life in service to his people, the gods, and Wyrmforge. The scars he bears proudly and the lines of worry on his face are a testament to his honor. With skin far lighter than his liege and hair faded white with age, he's earned the retirement he refuses to take. His armor is strictly traditionalist and etched with scripture. "I don't like what you are doing my lord, even if it is the only way. Still, there are a lot of clans making fortunes on this stalemate. They'll do anything to keep it that way."

"If we don't act now, we'll lose the night. Then we'll lose Eartheart." He hesitates as he passes the guards. "Sorry about the trouble."

"Nay, you ain't."

Far in the distance, well concealed by the crowd, is a young Duergar woman. By any standards Kiira Ironcast is beautiful, lacking the harsh glare of her people or the steely gaze of the embattled Gold Dwarves. She stands in contrast from her kin with expressive features and a welcoming smile. Even now her fear for Hame is clearly written on her face but the mood of the crowd lifts her. She feels them pulling together when he speaks, their joy soothes her and their righteous anger warms her. They hang on his every word, eager as children listening to stories of their ancestors. When the stairs turn their celebration embraces her.

She gasps when she senses the threat, ripping her from her musing. She can't pinpoint it but she knows she's surrounded. They'll kill her and anyone that interferes. Kiira can sense the cold intensity of their focus. She realizes she has to escape the crowd or they'll suffer too. She pretends calm before she turns and flees through the masses. Then suddenly she sees a Dwarf staring at her. He bears no markings, no clan emblems, they are cloaked and hooded. She meets his cold eyes and he smiles. He plots her death with the same detached and matter-of-fact way most would face heating metal or chipping stone. It's a job to be done.

She turns away even as she realizes he is not alone. Behind her, they're closing. She heads for a narrow alley; busy looking over her shoulder. She's two steps in before she realizes it has no exit. The assassins are utterly silent and skilled professionals, but unaware that Kiira senses their presence. When she spins, they raise their blades and charge.

Kiira suppresses her feelings and imagines one attacker choking as he's rises off the ground. Gagging, his feet kick as his boots leave the surface. The second attacker spares his companion a quick look but continues without hesitation. She imagines him smashing into the wall with bone shattering force. His head strikes so hard it splashes with red.

She senses her third attacker too late. She turns just as the blade erupts from her chest. She sighs and recites a prayer to Moradin. Finally, she smiles thinking about Hamezaar.

"Ahh should 'ave listened to 'im, 'e tol' me to stay 'ome," she told her murder as peace settles over her. "Ahh 'ope ye realize, ye won't stop him, ahh doubt ye will even slow 'im. 'e is…remarkable."

The first room to greet those who enter the citadel is a towering hall lined by stone columns. Awe-inspiring pillars sculpted and designed to remind those who walk through it of their legacy of stonework and the lifelong dedication it requires. Its sheer size withers any fantasies of grandeur from all save the most arrogant. Along the great walls, beyond the pillars is a vast mosaic of Dwarven history, beginning with their creation by Moradin. The images stretch down the hall to the gate at the far end, before continuing on the right side of the hall. To provide light, a dozen paces off the ground are windows. The eight windows are evenly spaced and paired on both sides. Too small for any but the thinnest Dwarves to squeeze through; most consider them impossible to reach. Just to squeeze through, they'd be forced to scale the sheer walls outside of the building, without being detected and executed by the guard towers.

Day or night the chamber is brightly lit, mirrors upon the ceilings and tops of the pillars reflect light throughout the room. Chandeliers and candelabrum brighten the already lustrous walls and pillars augmented by the angled mirrors to eliminate every shadow.

Hamezaar swells with pride as he enters. Normally he arrives early to council meetings to study the mosaic, while considering the correct course of action. Today he doesn't have such luxury. Still, he feels pleased all the same, the distinct honor of being a Gold Dwarf.

More guards stand watch within the towering steel doors and portcullis that make up the entrance. Another pair stand watch at the far end of the hall, well beyond a hundred paces. He's passed the guards hundreds of times in service to Eartheart. They stand still as statues, just a pace away from the wall, near the pair of cranks for the doors. Both are four feet tall and stout with layered plate, mail, and padded leather. A full helm conceals their faces and protects all save their eyes from danger. Curved swords hang at their hips. Hamezaar greets both respectfully, as he always does, but the guards are trained to remain still.

Consumed by his fears for Eartheart, the Drow threat, and politics he almost misses the Dwarves' curved swords. Missing such a little fact is almost forgivable; after all, as a Deep Lord his burden is far greater than even other Dwarf lords. While the Deep Lords often have a 'hand's off' policy towards individual clans, they still determine the direction of Eartheart.

…and some Dwarves carry swords, great Dwarves from distinguished clans.

His gut clenches but he remains calm. His boots thumps with each step, echoing off the walls in the deathly silent room. Hame searches for anything else out of place. Suddenly the guards turn towards the cranks and begin closing the doors. The trap closes about him. Light flickers as a shadow darts through a window. It could've been a cloud. Maybe his mind is playing tricks on him, fabricating a threat from his fears. He knows better.

The doors boom closed and he sprints to his right for cover. He throws off his cloak and readies his shield. His Morningstar comes to his hand as it has a hundred times. He hears chanting and places one of the great pillars between himself and the sound. Guardsmen charge down the hallway and one shots a quarrel that deflects off his armor. Worse, he knows there are four plus the one that came through the window. The last one concerns him most because he knows where the rest were.

Hamezaar turns away from the spellcaster, towards the entrance, and intercepts the guard. His opponent moves far swifter than any Dwarf in layered armor. Thoroughly ruined, the illusion used to disguise him dispels into nothing. Tall, thin, and black cloaked there is little question about who Hamezaar fights. From a dozen paces away the Drow assassin lunges. Hame immediately raises his shield and leans into it. With a flash the assassin teleports across the distance and strikes the shield with tremendous force. Shoved back half a step, Hame recovers in a defensive stance crouched behind his shield. His opponent mixes duelist sword styles with magic. Hamezaar recognizes the tricks of a swordmage.

The assassin never stops moving, darting one way and then another. First to Hame's left and then to his right, his moves are flashy and fast. He laughs at the Dwarf, the tone light and musical. Hame knows this assassin is a distraction. The assassin intends to draw out the fight so his fellow Drow could stab Hamezaar in the back. He strikes Hame's shield again and again, his reach and his weapon provides him safety from Hame's own. So Hame opens his guard. Surprised by the move, the assassin's blade scrapes against Hame's breastplate harmlessly. Hame swings his shield back shattering the assassin's wrist. Off-balanced and injured, the Drow can't retreat before a morningstar crushes his skull.

The next assassin is on Hamezaar in a second, giving him only a heartbeat to turn and face the Drow. The attacker thrusts and slashes with a pair of longswords while the Dwarf Lord keeps his shield up protectively. Fast and strong, the assassin alternates between dual thrusts and defensive and offensive use of his swords. His attacks become ferocious, viciously rapping on Hame's shield with the rare thrust reaching Hamezaar's armor.

Unbeknownst to him an archer edges around a pillar and draws back her bowstring. She releases her breath and shoots an arrow toward Hame's back. It strikes just beneath the steel collar around his neck, and should have punctured his spine. Only the layered armor of mail and padded cloth in addition to his natural Dwarven constitution keeps him alive. Even then pain burns its way through his neck and into him with every move.

Wincing, Hame ducks a vicious cut that should have taken off his head. He places a pillar between himself and the archer. The assassin keeps close, sensing weakness and circling Hame. The swordsman presses while Hame centers the pillar behind him and charges. The Drow tries to roll away, only to be caught by the Dwarf's shield and smashed into the massive stone column. The wind driven from his lungs, he can barely stand. Hamezaar snaps his knee with a single strike and then tears a chunk from his skull with another.

He hears the arrow whistling through the air and raises his shield protectively. The archer maneuvered to another pillar not even a dozen paces away. The arrow punches through his shield, stopping only a hair from Hamezaar's eye. Then magical purple fire lights his silhouette. The _fairy fire_ doesn't burn but make Hame a much easier target.

Focused on her now, he easily blocks her next arrow with his shield. Instead of producing a third, she shakes her head, dropping the hood free. Then she signals her wizard.

Hame almost misses the fireball. The roar of it and the bright light racing towards him is his only warning. The sphere of orange, yellow, and red hits the ground nearby. Unable to get a line on him, the magic user uses its explosive proximity. Hamezaar seizes the recently killed Drow and uses him as a shield. Even protected, the blast smashes him against a column. Fortunately the arrow in his neck isn't driven any further in. Fire flickers around the edges of the Drow's piwafwi, his cloak.

Hamezaar throws the smoldering Drow aside, startling the archer and mage.

"Who is it you thought you faced?" Hamezaar roared. "I am a Deep Lord!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Iune Xar'ozza is small even among Drow. Two centuries spent crawling, climbing, and creeping through the Underdark has burned away every ounce of fat. Her sunken eyes have a permanent shadow beneath them. Her dark grey skin is drawn tight across muscle and bone. Her bosom is nonexistent beneath her leather jerkin and trousers but her appearance means nothing to her. Her body and mind are as hard as the Underdark she prowls.

Now, as she looks upon her arrow lodged in Hamezaar's neck, her concerns grow exponentially. She'd slain a giant with that strike! His groan is no comfort. Now he's aware of her. She's fought horrors that most Drow would flee from. Still…she is concerned.

He's not her only one. She doesn't like the mission or who gave it to her. Her ranger stalks closer as she readied another arrow…then he died. She signals her wizard and his fireball envelopes the base of the ornate column. Her companion huffs with self-satisfaction but she resists the urge. A hunter and assassin knows the virtues of self-control. She also knows to confirm a kill before celebrating one.

Hamezaar throws off the body of the Drow and her breath catches.

"Who is it you thought you faced? I am a Deep Lord!" Hamezaar Wyrmforge was supposed to be a fat and decadent lord, heavy in gold and pride, an easy kill. His booming voice shakes her. Is he augmented by the room? Is it magic or psychological? "Enough! Your surprise is gone and you've lost half your command. Worse, your wizard is contemptible."

"No I'm not!" Her companion replies defensively.

"I piss better magic than you; it didn't even scorch the _piwafwi_." Her eyes widen in shock. He knew how to properly enunciation the name! _Who is he?_ Hamezaar hooks the cloak with his foot and drags it closer. "I know my enemies, their equipment, and their tactics. Four males and a female, I know who gives the orders too."

Was it the Dwarf's bearing, his persuasive argument, or her fears that makes him seem so credible? Darkness envelopes him just as her rogue strikes. Trained in fighting blind she knows the rogue has the advantage. Her mage prepares another spell when she gives the signal to hold. She signals with her fingers, _you're as likely to hit our rogue as the Dwarf._

_So?_ He replies callously. _Better to slay both than to continue facing him individually._

_Cursed Dwarf_, she reflects, _he might be right_. If they'd trained together this would not be so haphazard. A bang from the gate reveals the Dwarves' simplistic response to the locked gate. They'd built their fortress too well…but…she knows she is running out of time.

The fight within the darkness is ferocious. Metal strikes metal and wood. Suddenly her ally flees the shadow pursued by Hamezaar, taking the offensive for the first time. Her rogue has mastered shortswords but finds his position untenable. Hamezaar uses both shield and spiked club as weapons, swinging savagely. The Drow dodges and darts, unwilling to risk blocking. The Dwarf is too strong and heavy. Suddenly her rogue sidesteps and thrusts with both blades. Hamezaar blocks them easily, the first deflects harmlessly. The second pierces shield, plate, and mail. It slices his bicep and only its lack of reach keeps it from doing worse.

The Dwarf lord hisses in pain. Hamezaar twists his shield away, tearing the shortsword free. The rogue is too skilled and smart to try overpowering him. Instead he draws a third sword and attacks. Her next arrow is blocked by her comrade, so she signals her mage.

The wizard launches magic missiles, orbs of kinetic force colored silver and purple, flying unerringly towards them. Intentionally facing them, Hamezaar sees it and rushes the rogue. The orbs rock both. Struck from behind, the impacts hurl her companion into the Deep lord. Hamezaar stamps on his foot and throws an uppercut, ripping off the rogue's jaw.

The mage prepares another spell while Iune's arrow goes wide. She gasps, she'd rushed her aim! She releases another but it deflects off his pauldron. Hamezaar begins loosening the bindings on his shield. Her next arrow sinks into him and her fourth is deflected.

Suddenly Hamezaar throws his shield. It soars in the mage's direction and Iune can only yell a warning. Distracted by spellcasting the mage never sees it and the shield shatters his ribs. Born with innate grace and magic, the Drow have many advantages but they share a common frailty. The impact crumples him and his spell erupts all over him. Acid melts him into goo.

Iune freezes before studying him, watching her in turn, chest heaving with each breath.

"Whoo! I didn't know I was this out of shape. This is the consequence of extended lordship," his remark puts her off balance. "You have one shot maybe two until I smash you into that wall. Neither will kill me."

Iune discovers she backed against the wall. This close she'd have difficulty pulling her bowstring to its full strength. In all likelihood she'd have brushed the wall and startled herself, allowing an unfettered attack. She admits he knows that too.

Hamezaar's breathing slows as he regains control, "What changed? I'm not nostalgic. Our people were never friends but we traded before the Spellplague. Although we fought, it was over territory and resources. Neither of us sought annihilation."

"You were weak," she retorts. "If not us, it would have been someone else."

"That's a lie and you know it. Your tribe was nomadic, slaves slow you down. Your tribes never became bogged down in one place. What changed a century ago?"

A tremendous thump rattles the impervious door startling both.

"Disregard them," Hamezaar waves at the gate. "They built the fortress too well. We could sit for a meal and negotiations and they still won't break through. What changed?"

"House Trun'zoyl'zl," she sees no harm in it. In truth, Iune is surprised he doesn't know. "A fallen house from Undrek'Thoz, once the first house, they conquered several smaller tribes and forced an alliance upon us."

"In other words you saw the potential of such an alliance and figured you could withdraw at any time. Now you enjoy the treasures of your conquest but you're stationary. Your pride won't let someone else have what you've taken. Worse, the ambitious smaller tribes will overwhelm you if you revolt. Hah! Your greed has imprisoned you." Her silence is answer enough. Iune's eyes narrow in annoyance and her chin rises indignantly. She prepares a retort but he continues. "So you're trapped in a gilded cage. I bet you tell yourself that at any point you can put an arrow in her spine. It's a fallen house lass. I'm willing to bet they're flush with magic and Lloth's favor. Arrows aren't as lethal when you can raise the dead."

_Curse all Dwarves and this wretched alliance,_ Iune screams in her head. Instead of admitting how valid his arguments are she changes the subject, "Now what Lord Wyrmforge? Shall we fight and see who survives?"

"We could do that," Hamezaar casually picks up her rogue's fallen shortsword. "Honestly, I'd rather ask you a couple questions and then you can go."

"You'll release me after we breached the most secure building in Eartheart?"

"You failed. Besides, if I killed everyone that tried to kill me, I'd have no friends at all. Plus this isn't the most secure building. I've warned them for years about those windows. Most of these bloody fools have never dealt with shapeshifters. They haven't fought shades or flying monsters. I had to argue for weeks just to convince them to use Gorgon blood in the mortar. They didn't consider ethereal enemies a threat. Can you bloody well believe that?"

"I'm sure it was quite an ordeal. You mentioned questions."

"Firstly, what happened to the Dwarves defending this room?"

"There were none. They were removed so a sympathizer wouldn't let you in."

Hamezaar nods thoughtfully, "Second have you ever worked with this squad before?"

"No," she admits suspiciously.

"I thought not, you're a master archer and I'm guessing you have a lot of experience." Iune can't help but look at the bobbing arrow in his neck. "The rest of these Drow are males and expendable. That surprises me and I'm guessing handpicked for the mission but not by you."

"They were some of the best," even to her it sounds petulant.

"Aww lass, this wasn't an assassination, this was your execution."

She scoffs, "Is that your conclusion?"

"Think about it. Your orders were to assassinate a Deep lord in the Citadel, at the center of our power. You were sent with a handpicked squad but not your own. You weren't given a team of assassins. You had a swordmage, a ranger, and a rogue in addition to that wizard. I bet they didn't warn you that I fought at Mithril Hall during the siege by Menzoberranzan. They probably left out that I led the attack that secured the Gold Gates and recaptured the lower levels. You would have used magic, arrows, and then…turned to blades."

She clenches her teeth and hisses, "Is that all of your questions?"

"No, I have one more, is your spiderclimb potion still working?"

"No but I have another."

"I know politics," his words chill her. "Have a care when you return because I think you have bigger problems than me. You know where you can find me, if you want to talk again."

"Will that be all my lord?" She asks scathingly.

"Indeed." She guzzles the potion while she runs, empowering her to climb effortlessly. She's up the wall in seconds and swings through the window. Once outside, she sees griffon riders circling overhead. The supposedly 'elite' Dwarves blow a signal horn but she's already at the lower supports of the citadel. She slips into the crags beneath the building, descending to the next level. As the Dwarves search she's already running across rooftops. Insignificant Dwarves scream and point while Guards chase but she ignores them all. They're nothing to her.

Iune knows she can flee through the passages of their allies…but Hamezaar's words left her on edge. Instead she heads toward the cliff face leading into the East Rift. She decides to take the long way home just to be safe. At first she considers descending the rift along the many vertical climbing spots or descending the multitude of stairs. As his words gain momentum, she grits her teeth and jumps over the side. The long way becomes very short.

Her short hair dances in the wind, her piwafwi whipping around her. She's done this once before but that's no relief. Her heart pounds in her chest as her stomach somersaults with weightlessness. Only a hundred steps from the Rift floor she uses her ring, slowing her fall until it becomes a gentle descent. Just as her boots touch the ground, a piercing scream startles her.

Glancing up, she notices a griffonrider had followed her down. Iune draws her bow and shots an arrow. The griffon veers off but gives her enough time to flee into the nearby caves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Pounding hoof beats block out all noise save the ferocious wind. Three days without rest, without any sleep at all, and Kanti is exhausted. Her horse _Swiftdancer_ glistens from the run and the sweltering heat. She sweats just as much. Even at a gallop the wind is hot and dry, merciless to foreigners and hard on the natives. What once was savanna dried into high desert after the Spellplague. Now the foreigners call their lands the Shaar Desolation. She calls it home. There is no other place she would rather be than on the Shaar. That she rode for her life to a Dwarven city shames her. In all the Shaar, the Council Hills and the Dwarven capital are the only neutral ground. Today, Eartheart is her only hope.

She shakes her head to escape from her drifting thoughts. Nausea keeps her vision blurry and full of stars. She grew up here; her ancestors had lived here as long as anyone can remember. Her mind and body are accustomed to the heat but there are limits. She'd passed it hours ago.

Swiftdancer's ears swivel, hearing something too faint for her. Instinctively she follows the look and gasps. Three riders are nearly upon her. Although she can't see them, she realizes more riders are following. The tribesmen are large and powerful, yellow skinned men a little over five feet. They ride with a lifetime of experience on horses they'd raised personally. The tribesmen's short black hair shifts in the wind as they press their horses.

Kanti urges Swiftdancer on, "Please, just a little further."

She brushes Swiftdancer's neck, damp from the horse's sweat. Her nostrils flare as she huffs for breath. Swiftdancer is exhausted but Kanti needs more time.

"Kanti of the Hyena Tribe! Stop, we only want to talk!" She doesn't even bother answering. She's out of time. She can see Eartheart's walls and towers but she's still hours away. Gathering her wits and aligning her mind with the horse's rhythm, she calls upon the land. Earth magic draws plants from the very ground beneath her pursuers. The vines instantly tangle hooves and legs. The center horse screams from a broken leg, falling haplessly. The thought sickens Kanti but it means one less purser. The other riders sprint clear.

Her treacherous mind torments her with images of what would happen if she's captured. Suddenly Swiftdancer screams and trips. Only a moment of weightlessness passes before Kanti's instincts take hold and she tucks into a ball. She rolled when she strikes the ground, absorbing the impact. She scrambled around on her hands and knees before she finds her spear.

Five feet and yellow skinned, Kanti is tall for a Shaaran woman. Her black eyes dart from one rider to another and she decides the archer the greater threat. They encircle her on their horses. Swiftdancer rises up and Kanti winces when she sees the arrow in her hip.

"Throw down your spear!" The second horseman raises a spear. The archer shoots an arrow over her head. Already panicked, she throws her spear, piercing the horse's chest. Horrified, it rears, hurled him from his saddle.

Realizing she's weaponless, Kanti races after the wounded horse. Bucking wildly, when the horse sees her it sprints away. Cursing, Kanti claws at her belt for her stone knife. The huffing breath of a horse is all the warning she has. She rolls aside, the horse brushing passed, as the rider tries to spear her. The lion tribesman comes about and hurls his spear. Kanti barely dodges. The spear strikes the ground with such force it remains upright like a signpost.

Kanti reaches her feet just as the tribesman draws a handax and jumps off his horse. Her stone dagger with a handle wrapped in twain seems like such a weak thing. His ax is iron. He doesn't need anything special to split her skull. She wheels around him as he slashes twice, keeping a safe distance away. He counters her evasion and slashes twice more, forcing her back. Something snares her ankle and she trips. Falling, she realizes it was the archer who'd fallen from his horse. The axman drove her towards him.

She lands face first and jerks away. The handax slashes the ground she rolls away from. His hand shoots out, catching hold of her tan blouse and yanks her closer. She slashes the hand causing him to hiss. He disregarded his wound with a glance and slugs her. Disoriented by dancing stars in her vision, she can't resist when he raises his ax.

Swiftdancer charges him. He jumps aside but the archer is still on the ground. He can only scream before he's trampled. The axman turns and sprints for the spear he threw earlier. She jumps to her feet and chases him. He casts the ax aside, turning with the spear in both hands when she collides with him. Her dagger falls to the ground and they fight over the spear.

For a moment both struggle but his strength and weight quickly win out. So she kicks him between the legs. He groans but doesn't let go, instead pulling her into a headbutt. The blow knocks her onto her backside. He reels back to throw his spear when she grabs her dagger and drives it in his foot. Howling, he drives his spear into the ground, and uses it as a crutch.

Kanti seizes the hand ax and rises to her feet, facing him. His eyes seethe with hatred, seeing her as the origin of all his pain and suffering. His lips peel back in anger as he roars at her. Kanti charges, swinging with all her might. He blocks it, hooks the ax with his spear, and pulls it from her grasp. Off-balance, he can't stop her when she stamps on his injured foot. This time the tribesman falls. Seeing her chance, she jumps on top of him, pinning his arms beneath her. Straddling his chest she punches him again and again until he stills.

Spent, she falls into the sand beside him. Somewhere, a horridly piercing scream rings out, but she can't force herself to look. She blinks. It's becoming difficult to see through her swelling right eye, bruised from the headbutt. With one of her last spells, she heals it, and warm energy filled her. In seconds the aches and pains fade and her right eye opens.

She remains lying on the ground despite her fears. Swiftdancer huffs at her, stamping its hooves nervously. She brushes off her fatigue and fights to her knees. Swiftdancer whinnies for a moment before the horse stamps threateningly. Then Kanti notices the last tribesman, the one who'd lost his mount, sprinting towards her.

Swiftdancer rears and kicks at him. The tribesman roars so ferociously, so threateningly, that Swiftdancer retreats. For a heartbeat he studies her before he tossed aside his spear. Kanti stands up with her spear ready as the tribesman laughs at her. She thrusts and he catches it. He yanks her close and punches her in the stomach. Before she can react he punches her again. Stunned, she stubbornly holds onto the spear. Instead of taking it from her, he shoves her back.

"I can't belief the chieftain wants you. What a waste of time. You're pathetic Hyena girl. At least your mother put up a fight," he mocks her. He turns and kicks his fallen tribesman. "Get up weakling! Get up or I'll give you something to cry about."

The thought of her mother's fate fills Kanti with rage. She jumps to her feet and thrusts twice but the man dodges both. Her third thrust is low and causes him to spread his legs. That's when she runs to the side. Caught by surprise, the spear trips him. He laughs from the ground, completely unconcerned. She thrusts again, only to have him seize it once more. She's unwilling to let the spear go and he uses her stubbornness against her. He pulls her closer, inch by inch. Even angry as she is, she's terribly afraid of him. Realizing how foolish she's acting, she suddenly releases the spear, causing him to stumble back.

The tribesman she'd beaten rises to his knees. She hopes she can fight the warrior but knows she can't fight both. Then she spots his ax. She grabs it with both hands and races towards the wounded tribesman. The warrior screams but it's too late. She hacks into his skull with a sickening crunch. She falls to her knees on top of him. Deeply embedded in his skull, Kanti can't free the weapon. She shakes the handle only to break the ties holding the axhead to the stick.

The warrior roars again, "You'll pay for that!"

Kanti looks at the pathetic stick she held, barely as thick as her thumb and a foot long, coarse and full of splinters. It gave her an idea. Calling upon her last spell, typically used at the beginning of a fight, she enchants it. It thickens and lengthens, empowered by druid magic.

The warrior pulls no tricks. He just charges. She swings her club at his spear, splintering the fire-hardened wood into kindling. With all her weight behind it she swings again. Taken by complete surprise, he can only raise an arm. The club shatters it as easily as the spear. He howls and punches her. She stumbles sideways and falls, landing heavily on the sand.

"I don't need any weapons for you!" She swings at his knees but he jumps over it. Then he kicks her in the gut. He seizes her club and rips it from her hands. The instant it leaves her grasp it fades back to normal. He screams in frustration and hurls it away.

The horridly piercing scream interrupts him. They both look up. Above them circles a griffon. A majestic creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion, both stare uncertainly. This isn't just any griffon. They're common enough throughout the Shaar, especially this close to the Rift. This griffon is armored with fine mail and carries a Dwarven rider. She's never seen one this close but she's heard of the griffonriders of Eartheart.

He doesn't care. He kicks her again and snarls, "No one will save you!"

A glorious battle ax flies between them, sinking into the sand. She's never seen anything like it; runes and golden inlays are etched across the weapon. It is far too gaudy but the craftsmanship awes her. The warrior growls at the interruption and seizes its handle. He tears it free of the sand and raises it above his head. Then suddenly it disappears.

The Griffon lands nearby, disturbing the horses, and its rider jumps off. The Dwarf is a foot shorter than her but twice as wide. His silvery breastplate is as elaborate and etched as his ax. Shocked, she gasps when she recognized his ax. It returned to him! The Dwarf wears a helm shaped like an eagle' head. Black as night save where silver streaks mar it, his beard is sprinkled with jewels and clamps of gold. It falls all the way to his waist, where it's tucked into his belt.

"This is none of your concern Dwarf!" The Lion snarls.

"You know the law! Any lands within sight of the Eartheart are Dwarven domain! You will respect our neutral grounds! That means no raids or feuds on our territory!"

"Your people are weak! You lost your home and now you cling to a cliff. I am Lion Tribe! We rise like the sun over you! The Shaar will be ours!"

The griffon takes a threatening step and the warrior flinches. Suddenly the Dwarf seizes his throat and forces the tribesman to his knees. He bangs on the Dwarf's breastplate in vain and then strikes feebly at his gauntleted hand. Veins bulges in the warrior's face as fear creeps into his eyes. His face pales before he turns blue. The Dwarf pulls him close, "We've some strength left. I've fought Drow and Dragons and if you think the Lion Tribe frightens me, you're wrong."

The griffonrider throws him back, "Begone before I run out of patience."

Choking and struggling to breathe, the warrior spares her a hateful glance before fleeing. Kanti hesitantly climbs to her feet while the Dwarf studies her. "Now what am I supposed to do with you lass?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The instant she turns, his vision blurs. The gate thumps and his eyes fly open. Hamezaar glances around and pain erupts from his neck at the slightest movement. His blackout was temporary but he still stands. First, he squashes the fear creeping through him. His vision blurs again but a shake of his head makes his heart race and his sight clear.

He turns his chest instead of his neck. It hurts. It hurts well beyond his belief. His breath comes in gasps. That little effort leaves him blinking spots out of his vision. The banging. The banging is the gate. The great rolling gate is barred. He takes a step…then another. Soon it becomes mechanical and the crank appears before him. Reaching out unleashes more pain through his neck and down his arms. It takes both arms, his vision blurring and full of stars, but he pulls the bar free. The effort causes him to stumble.

The stumble is disastrous. He catches himself instinctively on a knee but it shakes the arrow. Pain blots out the world.

The marble floor is cool against his cheek.

_ Get up!_  
Every movement is torturous. It's difficult to think, to focus his mind because he feels so cold. He knows it's blood loss. Once his adrenaline wore off his wounds added up.

_Get! Up!_

He hears the cranks moving somewhere distantly. The door screeches as it opens. The battering ram warped it. Now the guards are discovering how much harder they'd made it. Nevertheless the door cracks open, scrape and scream as it may. The Dwarves beyond it are as stubborn as any, continuing to turn the crank no matter how difficult.

_GET UP!_

Another wave of nausea blurs his vision and he blinks. He awakens to a deafening shriek. His heart stopped in terror. After a moment to look around, Hamezaar realizes he passed out, and nausea washes over him again.

_You are a Deep Lord and patriarch of Clan Wyrmforge! GET UP!_

Pain shoots through his neck as he raises his arm. Placing his palm against the ground causes another wave of agony. He pushes, failing at first, before his chest rises off the floor. His head hung low even as he forces a knee beneath him. His heart pounds. He pants with the effort to get his feet down. It takes several seconds but he stands up. Nausea blinds him and causes him to wobble. Still struggling for breath, he falls against the wall but keeps upright. After a few moments he forces himself away from the wall.

In that instant citadel guards burst through the gate. Warhounds, short in stature but broad of shoulder, race alongside the guards. Dozens of them secure the room while the hounds bark and snarl, following the scent of Drow. One gnaws on a dead wizard before his handler regains control. Guards rush him but in their haste they don't notice the blood.

"By my beard!" They remain frozen for a minute until one of the hounds trots up and sniffs Hamezaar. Without thinking he holds out his hand and the dog muzzles his gauntlet. It sits and whimpers breaking their trance. "My lord, are you well? Can we help you?"

"I need my priest, Berund Oozesmasher and the captain of my guard good-Dwarf."

Another wave of nausea blurs his vision and suddenly Berund stands in front of him. Slowly, Berund comes into focus. Yerdan frowns so furiously that the guards back away.

"Moradin's beard! My lord what can I do?" Berund asks.

"Heal me quickly," he whispers. "If you don't, I'll lose consciousness for sure."

"The arrow will have to come out first," Berund warns.

"Time it, they can't see me weak. No one must see me fall."

Berund and Yerdan share a look and Berund begins to pray, "Moradin hear my prayer, my lords and ladies of the Morndinsamman, hear me and heal my good lord."

Hamezaar clenches his jaw in anticipation. He clamps down so hard he fears his teeth will crack. Berund looks at Yerdan and nods. Pain explodes from the back of his neck with a splash of blood. The world blurs and spins. Berund's glowing hands press against him and warmth spreads through his body. Hamezaar's vision returns with his health. Berund releases his grip slowly; just to be sure he can stand. Unintentionally, Hame tenses, expecting the pain he suffered only moments ago. Instead he's whole and healthy, "Thank you my friend."

"My lord," Berund bows his head respectfully.

"High lord, you have my sincerest apologies," a young Gold Dwarf bows with his arms at his side. He bows so low, so apologetically low, he looks like a peasant greeting a lord. He wears a fine suit of armor etched with the symbols of Morndinsamman, beginning with Moradin's anvil with a flame at the center of his breastplate. "My orders were to keep the room clear and we checked it only a minute beforehand. We had no warning until the gate began closing-"

"A Deep Lord was nearly assassinated in the Citadel…and the best you can offer is your apologies?!" Captain Yerdan roars. "Where's his escort? Where were the guards?"

"He was not to enter unless he was properly disguised."

"You are a servant of Moradin and a paladin," Berund lacks Yerdan's fury but his voice is cold with anger. "…and you're making excuses?"

"Enough," Hamezaar stops them. "Berating the lad won't change anything; guardsman did you follow your orders?"

"Yes high lord."

"Good, if you were ordered to keep the room clear, how could you detect trespassers there? If you'd caught them, your bodies may lie upon this very same floor."

"Sergeant Lightmarch," a woman calls. She wears the proper black cloak of a Deep Lord, plain and nondescript. She reaches up into the hood of her cloak and removes her mask, allowing it to hang at her neck, revealing her stunning face. Her skin is the color of rich chocolate with soft round cheekbones and a strong jawline. She holds her head high while offering a glance to each in turn. Just a glance sends the guardsman in retreat.

"Your eminence," Hamezaar bows respectfully and his men echo him.

"If you're angry with me, just say it. There is no need to taunt me with my house's fall."

"High Lady Simmerforge, with respect to the council, yours is only clan that I ever saw ruling our people."

Yerdan and Berund remain still but many of the guards nod and a few say, "Aye."

A glare from her silences them instantly, "Your past actions spoke differently."

"Sergeant," a guardsman calls and Lightmarch briskly moves to him. A moment later he returns, "My lady, there's a survivor."

Hamezaar glances at the Drow without a jaw and gapes, "That's a tough Elf."

"Cut his throat and be done with it," the High Lady replies casually.

"No, let me take him."

She considers it, "Absolutely not. His existence is an insult to the Citadel. Do you seek information? What would he know? They treat their men like refuse."

"You'd be surprised what people hear when they're disregarded by those around them. No, I do not seek to interrogate him, but I can find other uses for a skilled fighter."

"To turn him against his people?" Karrvice inquires. She considers it but shakes her head. "No, I will not risk having him escape and become another problem for us."

Hamezaar's lips press into a line, "It'd be regrettable if a rumor spread about your house having a hand in this. A whisper here and a question there, Simmerforge left the entrance unguarded. How could Drow penetrate this deeply into Eartheart…without help?"

She throws a look over her shoulder to make sure no one hears. Hamezaar orders his clansmen, "Bind, heal, and wrap him in a cloak before taking him to our cells."

Karrvice watches them stiffly before she orders her own guards away. Once Berund and Yerdan carries the Drow out she asks, "What happened to us?"

Hame groans, "We're not having this conversation. High Lady Simmerforge, I enjoyed the time we spent together but you know it'd never work out."

"Imagine what we could do together," she pleads.

"What you would do. Your mother can't share power even with you and nor will you."

"It's complicated Hame."

"You'd try to absorb my clan and remove me from command," she presses on but he cuts her off. "Even now you're furious I made you release the Drow."

She's too controlled to reveal her feelings, "We need to work together if we're going to defeat the Drow and recover our home."

"I concur. We also need our leadership to _lead_, not play partisan games behind the curtain. Your mother's decision to wait in the shadows, to only react, is why we're here today. Leading is not waiting around for someone to fall into your web."

"Ah too bad!" Another Deep Lord interrupts, properly cloaked and masked. "I heard rumors of your death. Unfortunately you survived."

"High Lord Amplewrought," Karrvice announces politely.

"If it were me, I'd be more worried about my clan."

Karrvice's look is equally parts surprise and shock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Iune knows she's in trouble. She failed, everything else is immaterial. What once was Underhome is now _Telantiwar reborn_, a city that's equal parts destruction and majestic engineering. Vast halls with arched ceilings are supported by meticulously carved pillars, elegant bridges cross vast chasms, and glorious statues rise up hundreds of feet. Thousands of slaves clear new halls and ancient buildings.

Although they'd ruled the city for a century, the Dwarven architecture remains dominant. Drow in other parts of Faerun might be inclined towards civil engineering; the Wild Drow are not. Her people are survivors and slayers. They'd survive alone or in groups in the lower or Upperdark. Even the surface is no stranger to them. They're killers not craftspeople.

The patrol leads her through central Telantiwar. They pass the former royal palace before continuing on to a fortress butted up to a corner. House Trun'zoyl'zl's stronghold is the only exception. Powerful Bugbear stonejacks haul statues up scaffolding to their placement. Stone spiders and pious Lloth figurines cover every flat surface. Pulleys and ramps allow Goblin slaves to remove rubble under the watchful eyes of Drow overseers. Dwarves of all complexions serve their masters while throwing hateful glares at their backs.

As soon as the sentries reach the gates of House Trun'zoyl'zl, her escorts are relieved by house guards. Neither concerns her. The team of Bugbear and Hobgoblin are led by a lower class male. She disregards them because they're brutes and thugs, nothing more. Her concern is the quiet, a pervasive feeling of uncertainty. Slaves work feverishly even without overseers. Fear is always in the air among the Drow, for violence can come from anywhere. This simple fact is accepted by all. That didn't concern her but the new destruction does. Walls are shattered or scorched where they had not been. Both the sentries and the house guard seek threats with nervous eyes.

Within the walls of the fortress the heads of several Drow decorate the walls. Iune smiles momentarily after noticing fresh heads, "Which lesser tribes annoyed the matron mother now?"

Then she gasps when she recognizes her mother's head. Suddenly a hand seizes her, "How dare you lay your filthy paws on me! Release me beast or you'll beg for death!"

Before she can reach her blade another Bugbear seizes her, massive paws effortlessly holding her. Tall and burly, the seven foot tall beasts are lightly furred. They're shaped somewhat like Humanoids, with lupine ears that curve out from their heads.

Their Drow leader smiles at her, "Please keep struggling, it's fun to watch you squirm."

"Revel in this moment male," she hisses. "It will be one of the few where you have power over a female. You will rue the moment you smirked at me and beg to call me mistress."

The Bugbears are too many and too strong, realizing her struggles are in vain she yields. They take her weapons but the beasts foolishly leave her belt. She has a potion of freedom and considers escaping; then she disregards the idea immediately. _If I break free of the Bugbears, I may escape or they may slay me. Even if I escape, I have no idea what happened to my tribe. Who can I ask for information? Who can I turn to? All hands would turn against me. Then the Matron Mother would turn all her magic and her Goddess' wrath upon me._ Soon the Goblinkin relax. She's a hunter…patience is her virtue. Perhaps she can prevail when the opportunity presents itself.

The patrols within the palace change from Bugbears to Drow males, escorted by massive spiders. A rare female priestess leads them or guards a vital room. Iune is carried into a great hall with a throne at the far end. Throughout the room Goblins scrub frantically, trying to remove the bloodstains. Matron Mother Jesthflett Trun'zoyl'zl lounges on a divan, casually watching Iune's arrival. Jesthflett is gorgeous and everything she despises about noble Drow. Her skin is soft and flawless. The Matron Mother has never starved in the depths of the Underdark while crawling through fissures and enduring multiple wounds. Sleek white hair flows down to her breasts, where her revealing V-neckline sparkles from dazzling jeweled necklaces. High cheekbones and sharp almond shaped eyes tighten as her red lips spread into a smile.

Instinctively Iune studies the room. High above them a metal plate hangs suspended, "My mother survived the trap. That's why there was a head to put on a spike. Her guards did not."

"Some did," her captor answers. "None of them begged and they made us pay in blood."

The Matron Mother beams, "Welcome home."

"Matron Mother," Iune replies calmly. If she is going to die, than she will die, the threat of it was nothing new. "The Deep Lord was far more capable," she almost used the word 'dangerous' which would imply that he could be more powerful than her. If he is stronger than she is weak. Weakness equals death among the Drow. "...than I expected. I barely escaped."

"Your mother and your tribe paid for your failure."

"No, matron mother, they did not. You slew them before I reached Eartheart."

"How dare you make such an accusation!" Anger flashes in Jesthflett's eyes and the Bugbears tighten their grip. Then Jesthflett suddenly laughs. "You're the best hunter Iune, I won't deny that. Perhaps I'll keep you as a pet as I have the Underking. You can join him in his torment, a reminder that defiance has no place in my city, my Telantiwar."

She waves to her torture rack, a wagon with a large stone statue of a rearing spider. A lean and scarred Minotaur is bound to the spider's thorax. He bleeds from a dozen cuts, slices, and piercings. Whip marks and lashings leave his furred hide in tatters. In her experience most Minotaurs are brutes. Half-staved by the Drow, the Underking ripples with lean power. After a hateful look at the matron mother his gaze resumes its normal indifference.

"If that's Lloth's will," Iune replies scathingly.

"Who are you to speak her name?!"

"You slew your opponents with a giant plate. I'm sure the Spider Queen was overwhelmed by such intrigue." Matron Mother Jesthflett yanks a dagger from the Underking's flesh and holds it to Iune's throat. Her lovely face twists with homicidal rage as she presses until blood trickles down Iune's throat.

"Perhaps she can still be of use mother." Westhett, her son suggests. Like his mother, he is attractive, gorgeous even, but far too soft for her. His trousers are as dark as his skin but his white tunic matches his shoulder length hair. He offers her the strangest look. She's seen him give that look to the Underking. "If you kill or torture her, she's nothing but a waste-"

"Silence! You are a plague upon me!" She screams. After a moment to compose herself, Jesthflett continues, slightly more sane. "You will be of use Iune, whether you want to or not."

Her chanting begins slow, quiet and low before her voice rises threateningly. The little hair on Iune's head begins to stand on end, not from electricity but an unnatural energy rolling off the priestess. Lloth's name is called several times but otherwise Iune can't understand a word of it. The power builds until it becomes difficult to think or even breathe with the throbbing energy. The very air shimmers and warps as the chanting seems to go on and on indefinitely.

"You will deliver a fatal blow to Hamezaar Wyrmforge and then return to the Underdark." The energy strikes her, passes through her, and saturates every ounce of her. The sheer power of it leaves her sagging against her captors. Jesthflett motions and they drop her. "I have placed you under a Geas, defy me, and you will sicken until you die. The only way to end this spell is by completing your mission. If you betray me or if you cause any mischief, I will have you passed out to the Orcs. They'll defile every inch of your flesh but you'll survive. Then you'll go to the Goblins or whoever serves me best for that tenday. You will be a toy for them to amuse themselves with…for an eternity. As long as I live, so will you suffer, this I swear."

Iune can only watch from the floor as she leaves, guards and servants trail dutifully. Outside the room Zhem, her tribe's wizard, waits for her. Jesthflett runs a hand down his arm slowly, sensually. Then she throws a triumphant smile at Iune. Zhem offers a blank look before he takes the hand of a young girl barely seventy, not even old enough to travel alone. Iune's heart stops as shock and anger courses through her, and then they pass beyond her sight.

It takes some time but she recovers from the spell and rises to her feet, only afterward she notices her weapons. The sheer disorienting power of the spell had left her uncomfortably weak. Trapped by magic and feeling cornered, she begins planning when a voice stops her.

"Now you're a slave too," the Underking declares.

The implication fills her with disgust but gives her an idea. She grabs her potion of freedom and pours it into his mouth. He tries to refuse, turning away, but it's already too late. Instantly his bindings fall away and he falls to his hands and knees. Blood seeps from his wounds and pools beneath him.

"Your wounds will leave you weak but you may-," she gurgles when he suddenly seizes her throat. Despite his injuries, he rises to his full height, eight feet and towering over her. "The Matron Mother…is slow. You might…catch her…if you leave now."

The conflict in his eyes lasts only a heartbeat. With a 'clop clop clop' of his hooves he sprints through the doors. The Goblins scrubbing the floors watch in disbelief before the hint of a smile crosses their wretched faces. Iune considers slaughtering them. _They're witnesses and it'll make me feel better._ Instead she ignores them; she has no time to spare for sport. The slaves were not as broken as they thought and that always spells trouble.

Her mood renewed, she smiles and heads home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The Underking had a different name once. Sprinting through the doorway he follows her scent. Slaves jump out of his way and flee for their lives. Drow yell "stop" but he ignores them. Jesthflett's stink leads him to the main entrance with a T-shaped staircase. Drow babble before he startles them. They cry out and draw blades. He seizes both and hurls them away.

The Underking reaches the plateau at the half way point, hops the railing and continues up the stairs. A Bugbear yells before a straight punch floors him. Then the Underking rips an ax from his grasp. Her spotless white dress is unmistakable, standing on the balcony, her dress swaying as she leans against the railing. There are others. Guards, companions, and entourage accompanying her but she was the only thing that matters to him. A Drow tries to block him but the Minotaur charges. His broad horns dip, his legs pound, and he roars in fury. He barrels through her protectors. Defenders fly aside with screams and broken limbs. Blades sting him and an arrow pierces his back. Wizards chant frantically. They don't have a chance. Matron Mother Jesthflett Trun'zoyl'zl can only stare in horror, her silver eyes widen as she's frozen in place.

"Mother!" Westhflett shoves her aside as horns pierce his chest. Momentum propels both over the banister and to the ground below. Miraculously the Underking lands on his hooves. The boy screams in agony as he flops about, thoroughly impaled and caught. The Underking roars with all the fury within him, frustration and anguish feeding his anger. Rage blurs his vision and ends any rational thoughts.

"DENIED…AGAIN!" He seizes Westhflett with one hand and rips him in half; blood showers his fur and the ground around him.

"NOOOoooo!" His mother wails from the balcony.

The blood cools him just enough to think. He missed his chance. Now he has to flee. The Underking charges the gates. Arrows fly by him and slaves retreat just as a pair of Hobgoblins confronts him. The Underking beheads one and cleaves through the second's legs. He rolls aside as a Drow appears and lunges. An overhead blow splits the Elf in half. Then the Underking is through the gates and away.

The Underking reminds himself, _I was a king once…and will again_.

"My poor Swiftdancer, I have used my magic for the day."

"Here lass, take this," the Dwarf offers a potion from his Griffon's pouches.

"I can't, you've done enough," she replies. He insists so she feeds it to Swiftdancer, healing her wounds. "I'll walk. I shouldn't have pushed her, it's a miracle she isn't lame."

"Very well," the Dwarf bows his head and waves to his mount. The griffon obediently comes to his side, even shaking its reins at him. He takes them in hand and walks beside her. Swiftdancer is skittish at first but nuzzles Kanti's after a few minutes. Time passes in silence before the Dwarf asserts, "I thought the Hyena Tribe joined the Lions."

She sighs, "My mother and I didn't; now we are hunted."

"Where is your mother now?"

"She's gone," Kanti whispers. The conversation makes her stomach sink and she fears she'll embarrass herself further by crying. _As if her rescue wasn't shameful enough. _Instead of allowing it to continue she changes the subject. "I'm surprised you can recognize my tribe."

"I've flown these skies for a century lass, I know its people."

"Most Dwarves don't."

"True enough, my people suffer a streak of vanity. It's changing though; our pride has fallen with Underhome. I learned long ago the value of your people and mine is learning it too. My people are slow to change; we have always been opponents of change."

"Why'd you help me?" She stops her horse and faces him. "Your people don't care for mine. You look down on us, call us barbarians."

He laughs, "You are barbarians."

She huffs, "That's exactly what I mean."

"Saving a pretty girl isn't enough of a reason?" When she refuses to let it go, he shrugs casually. "My people have not have left you with a good impression."

"You're greedy and arrogant."

"Aye, you're not wrong but we're not evil. We just have…different priorities," he starts walking again and Kanti follows. "My people have many concerns, not the least of which is the loss of our homeland. For eleven thousand years we held these lands and crafted wonders. That sort of history is bound to make anyone proud, maybe a little too proud."

Silence stretches as Eartheart's walls grow in the distance. Far from her and despite the arrival of night, she can see merchant caravans heading towards Hammergate, the foreign quarter. Darkness holds no fear for them here, in shadow of Eartheart's walls.

"I know you changed the subject. I still want to know why you saved me…but…have you really fought a dragon?"

"I've fought two. One well over a century ago, an arrogant young red drake looking for a challenge. The second was a few years ago, an old and vicious black. The black was by far the most evil thing I have ever encountered. It kept other dragons as slaves, torturing them for fun."

"How do you fight such a terror? My people always flee or unite with the tribes nearby. We just hope to drive it off."

"Magic, fine weapons, and tactics can bring down even an ancient wyrm. All griffonriders carry weighed nets and tanglefoot bags. If you can snare their wings and trap them on the ground, then they're hobbled. If they can't fly then they can't attack and flee at will. Otherwise they'll wear you down with flyby attacks and their breath weapon. The Dragons are sharp though and recognize the threat of being stuck on the ground. You have to trap them quickly. Numbers count too, the more people you can gather the better."

"A Dragon sighting ends all disputes," she says.

"A fine proverb from the plains of the Shaar."

"Were you among the people rescued by the Eagle Tribe?"

He misses a step. His griffon squawks in surprise but the Dwarf recovers quickly and soothes his mount with a pat and whispers. The Griffon looks him over and rubs its head on him. She can't help but smile. His mount cherishes him, speaking volumes about his character.

"Aye lass," he admits with a distant look. "You know about that?"

"Everyone knows the story of how the Eagle Tribe rescued the dying Dwarves. They…"

"Go on lass, I want to know what they say," he says eagerly.

"It's proof of your bigheads. The Eagles saved you and you don't care. You gave them steel blades and gold before you pretended it didn't happen."

"There's more to it than that lass. Is that all? Have you spoken with an Eagle about it?"

"The Eagle Tribe takes great pride in it. They call some Gold Dwarves brothers and are well received by some clans. They say Ironsmelter and Wyrmforge offer discounts to the Eagle Tribe and trades steel for meat, pelts, and fruit."

"Ironsmelter and Wyrmforge of course. You seem to know a lot about the Eagle Tribe."

"That's who I'm-" she stops suddenly and swallows. She looks at the ground before peeking at him, watching her closely. _Why is he so curious?_ Her mother had warned her to trust no one. _The Lions have allies among the Dwarves, just like the Eagles._

"I am remiss, I've not introduced myself," he bows. "I am Captain Thullund Highshield, commanding officer of the third air cavalry, sworn to Eartheart and vassal of Clan Windshield."

"I don't know what half that means."

"Most just pretend they do," he grins and her panic wanes. She smiles back but suddenly his eyes harden. "Ahh, there they are."

She follows his gaze and her fears return immediately. A score of Lion tribesmen ride hard in pursuit, quickly gaining on them. Captain Thullurd grins and continues on seemingly unconcerned, "Now you're being rude lass, after all, I introduced myself. What's your name?"

"Kanti," she says half-heartedly with her full attention on the riders. They spread into a line as a pair of tribesmen race past. The rest form a crescent moon behind them, slowing their horses to a trot, and then to a walk. She can't understand it but they don't make any threatening moves. They follow quietly, unnervingly. Thullurd nods, "I thought so. The Lions have grown strong but they're not stupid, at least not that stupid. They won't risk Eartheart's retribution."

She studies him for a moment and is only just able to hear him whisper, "Not yet anyway."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Kiira Ironcast is cool and motionless beneath the blanket. She was placed on a raised stone platform for the burial rituals. They'd only cover her if her body was desecrated. He knows she's missing her head. Idly Hamezaar studies the blanket, shimmering gold with white symbols for Morndinsamman, the Dwarven Pantheon.

"We can go to the priests of Moradin and plead for a resurrection," Barund suggests, stroking his white beard. "The priests said… they can't raise her from the dead."

"They'll say no! Bloody hells, they'll say no! They ain't risking Moradin's wroth over a Duergar, no matter whose paramour she was." Yerdan paces. "A hundred years since Laduguer and Deep Derra fell, since we returned with the Army of Gold and they still don't value us."

"A donation, a heavy donation to the church may sway their minds," Barund scowls.

"She was neither paladin nor priest. She did not die in a battle against the servants or priests of a vile god. They will not resurrect her." Hame's heart sinks. "I should have married her Yerdan. I should have ignored tradition and politics and made her my wife."

"You would have lost half your vassals," Berund replies softly. "They'd revolt."

"You've said that a hundred times but the important ones would stay. The rest would face the consequences for their decisions…for generations."

Yerdan sighs, "No. Kiira understood that the right marriage, the right alliance could place you on the throne. It would have changed everything. It will change everything."

"We need the Rift united," Berund insists.

"The Drow will pay," Hame clenches his hands into fists. "I swear it."

Berund and Yerdan share a look before Yerdan says, "It wasn't Drow."

"Witnesses saw Dwarves chasing her into that alley," Berund continues.

"They have allies and illusions; the Drow I fought were disguised as Dwarves by magic."

"There's an impression on a wall, Dwarf sized, with blood. The healers of Sharindlar claim that her wound is at a sharp upward angle. A Drow's height would make a straight or slightly inclined wound to her back. Only someone crouched, her height, or shorter would make such a wound. If anyone died their bodies were removed, nothing else was found at the scene."

"The priests of the Lady of Life and Mercy would know," Yerdan admits. "They care for wounds and injuries all the time."

"High Lord Wilfgurd Amplewrought," Hamezaar recalls. "He knew. He said I should be more worried about my clan. The Drow knew the hall was empty too, someone told them."

"That's no coincidence," Yerdan snaps. "That it happened on the same day."

"It's not a coincidence but that's hardly evidence," Berund shakes his head.

"We didn't know until after the assassination attempt. They couldn't identify her until the investigators discovered her Wyrmforge sigil on her cloak. A footman recognized her clothing."

"Even if we caught them there's no way they'd admit to his involvement. They'd demand legal advocates and close gates. Amplewrought will claim his words were good council."

"This was skillfully done, publically too," Yerdan points out. "They were professionals."

"Only a few clans that would dare to do this," Hamezaar interjects. "That would dare and had the skill needed. She wasn't crushed, so it wasn't the Shadowhammers, and that eliminates Simmerforge. At least it eliminates them directly, that doesn't mean they didn't know or have a hand in it. That leaves Gloomguard and Amplewrought's Piercesteel."

"Why would Gloomguard kill her?" Berund asks. "They have more Duergar than us."

"Why would anyone kill her?" Yerdan says it as if it's obvious. "To hurt Wyrmforge and our lord but you don't want to hear it. All you do is argue! You never liked my sister!"

"That's not true," Berund barks. "The Council will say the same thing!"

Both Dwarves took a threatening step before Hame stops them.

"Enough! Berund is right and the Council will make the same arguments. We'll go to Gloomtown and I'll speak to the patriarch," Hamezaar huffs. "We're not friends but he won't lie to me. He will not and swear before Moradin. We'll go alone, just the three of us."

"You know the house is watched. We'll be recognized for sure," Berund cautions.

"I'm depending on it."

They head for the switchback stairways. The stair is swung away from them and Berund grumbles, "A hundred years ago they'd have two stairs."

"Aye and an army would have a straight run up to the next level," Yerdan replies.

"A hundred years ago the Drow didn't rule Underhome and our people didn't make up excuses to ignore them," Hame grumbles.

They continue without another word. Clan symbols are common depending on region of Eartheart. As they move closer to Gloomtown, the Gloomguard emblem appears everywhere, a grey shield centered on a white tower surrounded by a field of black. Dimness is ever present where it's not concealed in darkness, hence the name. A stone hood creates a roof, to protect from flying opponents and those looking to escape over the side of the cliff. The poorer sections of Eartheart have torches and the richer levels often employ magical lanterns. Gloomguard's domain uses eerie blue glowing lanterns that barely provide light, despite their even spacing and overlapping glow. The lanterns taint everything with a grey cast, even where it should not.

"I know we must do this. But now that we're here, I have concerns," Berund whispers.

"There are dark rumors about Gloomguard, about their magic and where it comes from." Yerdan adds. "There are rumors that they secretly worship Shar, the Mistress of the Night."

Even the citizens living in this section reflect the closed mouth and secluded nature of the level. As they go about normal chores, they avoid the light, creeping along walls without a word. "These are a people of silence," Hame reminds them.

The gate leading into Gloomguard's keep is only a small part of the wall that stretches up to the roof. Evenly spaced both from the ground and the ceiling, three rows of the blue lanterns light the entrance. Instead of the traditional square gate, Gloomguard have a hinged stone. Around the edge of the gate are enchanted symbols that Hamezaar recognizes but cannot read. He could only imagine what they entailed.

"We're being watched," Yerdan warns.

"We're in Gloomtown," Berund mutters. "What do you expect?"

"What do you want here Deep Lord?" The whisper comes from beneath a lantern. A rogue swathed in black appears, leaning casually against the lantern post.

"I'm going to speak with the Patriarch of Gloomguard-"

"The Patriarch is quite busy, perhaps if you had forewarned of your coming or sent a-"

"Do I look like I am playing games!?" Hamezaar roars. His voice is thunderous as it echoes down the corridor. "Perhaps I will return at the head of ten thousand soldiers!"

The Dwarf pales, difficult to do with his dark brown skin, "High Lord if-maybe-give me a moment and I will-"

"Leave the lad be Hamezaar," someone calls from behind him.

Six Dwarves appear behind the trio. A mixture of Gold, Grey, and Shield Dwarves surround the Patriarch of Gloomguard. All of them wear black and are hard to discern.

"Guurne," Hamezaar bows his head slightly. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

"I'm a busy Dwarf Hamezaar; you'll have to be more specific." Hame's look darkened, his fury reaching his eyes as he looks upon the patriarch. Guurne recoils, "No, I have no knowledge of the attack on your mistress, I swear."

"No knowledge? Who are you toying with!? Next you'll say the accusation is offensive!"

"Whom do you think you're threatening Hamezaar?" Shadows creep in from the walls and from behind Guurne. "You threaten to bring an army and I promise we would cut you a thousand times before you ever reach our gates."

"Your rogues are of no use if we burn every inch of this place before we bother with your cheap gate. Berund give us some daylight."

A spell cast and a second later brilliant yellow light fills the space around them, instantly revealing the score of Dwarves surrounding them. Many of them hiss or wince from the sudden brightness. Some withdraw to the edges of the light while a rare few stubbornly refuse to move. Yerdan spins to face them, a handax in each hand, hard-eyed and unconcerned by their numbers.

Guurne Gloomguard takes a moment to seriously consider the situation. Suddenly whispers ripple through them and a Dwarf whispers to him. Guurne informs them, "High Lord Wilfgurd Amplewrought has arrived with twenty guardsmen. Is this your doing?"

"No but I expected it," Hamezaar admits.

"I can help you Hamezaar."

"The only thing I want High Lord, is for you to swear before the Morndinsamman. Swear upon your clan that Gloomguard had nothing to do with Kiira's death."

He swallows and looks away from Hamezaar's glare, "I swear by Moradin and upon the honor of my clan and vassals. We had nothing to do with her death Hame. If this was done by one of my Dwarves' hands, if it was done without my knowledge and behind my back, I will burn their whole clan out of Eartheart and the Shaar. It will be as if they had never lived."

Hamezaar lowers his gaze respectfully and bows to him, "I apologize for my coarse tongue and my lack of etiquette High Lord."

"Would you have destroyed my clan and plunged Eartheart into war just for revenge?"

Lowering his voice and stepping closer, Hame whispers, "An attack upon my lover is an attack upon me and my clan. I'd lose the trust of hundreds if not thousands of sworn vassals if I didn't respond. I knew you had nothing to do with it. If you had, no one would have witnessed it. She merely would have disappeared…but I had to be certain."

"You are playing a dangerous game. I can still help you."

"Fancy that!" Wilfgurd Amplewrought shouts across the distance. Gloomguard's rogues fade away with the soldiers' arrival and once they're beyond the range of the daylight spell, they disappear completely. Wilfgurd and his soldiers march until they're within a pace of the trio. "It's funny how we keep running into each other Wyrmforge."

"All I ask is that you bear witness before Moradin," Hamezaar whispers to Guurne, who subsequently disappears. Then he turns to Wilfgurd, "How long have you served the Drow?"

High Lord Amplewrought sputters, "Wha-No! How dare you say that! Such an accusation is offensive!"

"It's just us here, unless you can't trust your soldiers _High Lord_. Come out with it."

"My patience is running out Hame, if you continue such an affront, I'll seek reprisal." The Deep Lord's hand wraps around the battleax at his side, his shield already on his arm.

"You were always weak Wilfgurd _but you were virtuous…_once. Do you think you're saving your clan by allying with them? No, wait; this is your wife's scheming. Isn't it?"

"Silence!" Wilfgurd screams and his men charge.

"Remain within the sunlight," Hamezaar orders as he raises his shield. Wilfgurd's ax slams against it, throwing Hame back. He barely ducks another guard's sword and knocks aside a warhammer. A kick hurls the last Dwarf back. Yerdan suddenly disappears, shocking the guards before appearing behind them twice as large. He hacks a leg and then an arm. He ducks an ax and trips the attacker before shoving another Dwarf back. Berund knocks aside an ax with his shield, breaks a leg with his hammer and then calls upon Moradin. The Soulforger blessing arrives with a flicker of light. Their attacks become surer, their nerve steeled for battle.

"Priest!" A guard points at Berund. Crossbowmen shot but the proximity of the other guards ruins their aim. A lucky shot ricochets off Berund's helm. He places his back to Hamezaar and calls upon Moradin again. His chant grows, calling upon Moradin's link to the land, mountain, and stone. The guards realize the danger and charge. They strike his shield and a lucky hit batters his pauldron but they don't interrupt him in time.

Sharp rock tears through the stone floor, shredding leather boots and flesh alike. Guards scream as they fall and others cry a warning. A few dart away or keep their feet but most tumble. The spike stones create a barrier between the Deep Lord Amplewrought and his guards. Only three guards escape the magic because they were so close to the group. A few bold and reckless Dwarves try to cross the spikes only to fail, often with injury.

Towering eight feet over the guards, a result of the Duergar's inherent magic, Yerdan throws an uppercut that hurls a guard back. "Stay back! This is between them!"

Hamezaar and Wilfgurd smash into each other like bulls. Metal bangs and wood creaks. Neither retreats so they battered each other furiously. Equally matched in armor, strength, and pure stubbornness they fight savagely. They break, huffing and puffing for breath. They circle before Wilfgurd slashes through Hame's shield, thoroughly ruining it. Hame backpedals to dump his shield and then he takes his morningstar in both hands. Wilfgurd smirks. Hame knocks the ax aside before batting his shield away. Wilfgurd retreats but not before Hame crushes his shoulder. A frantic swing nails Hame's wrists, knocking his morningstar loose.

"Yes!" Guardsmen scream after what they thought was their master's certain doom. The roles reversed, another screams, "Kill him! Finish it high lord!"

Wilfgurd's eyes glow feverish with his impending victory. Yerdan and Berund both lean forward, ready to support their lord before he waves them off. Wilfgurd spares his limp arm a glance and Hamezaar raises his fists.

"Your grey bitch put up more of a fight than this," Wilfgurd snarls before he attacks.

Hame steps in and blocks the ax mid-swing. His punch stuns the Deep Lord. Then Hame claws for a weapon from his belt, wraps his fingers around a hilt, draws and thrusts. It was foolish, frantic, and desperate. Nothing should pierce the fine steel plate armor but the shortblade slices it effortlessly. It runs right up to the handle. Wilfgurd gasps and gags. He trembles and falls to his knees. Hame releases the shortsword and tears the battleax out of Wilfgurd's hands.

"JUSTICE!" Hame roars with the ax above his head. Amplewrought's guards groan in horror. Their Lord falls back and lies helpless before a chill runs up Hamezaar's spine. The shortsword was the one he took from the Drow rogue. That's why it pierced Dwarfwrought steel so easily. The same way it had Hame's own armor.

His hesitation gave Wilfgurd a chance, "No! Please Hame, there's more, it's not just your woman. There's more to it and the Drow!"

"By my beard, he admits it," Guurne gasps, appearing at Hame's shoulder.

"Go on traitor, speak!" Hame demands. Suddenly a crossbow bolt pierces Wilfgurd's helm. Hame only has enough time to flinch before the bolt explodes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Iune slips soundlessly into the ruins of her tribe's camp where bodies lie strewn across the ground. A rogue Quaggoth crouches on a wall while eating a corpse. Burly and white furred; even hunched the deep bear is large and powerful. Suddenly he freezes and looks around, sniffing the air. Small round ears swivel while it searches for whatever had set it on edge. What they lack in intelligence Quaggoth make up for with excellent instincts. It slinks off the wall on all fours before it rises up on two legs, looking for the threat it senses. A single arrow slays it.

Iune studies the plateau they took as their home. Still hidden a distance away, her sharp eyes search every shadow, crack, and crevice for hidden enemies. Their home is a fortress that overlooks the city, rising above and along the edge of it. It's isolated but still within Telantiwar periphery. They have a clear view in all directions. Catapults, ballista, and other siege engines protect against attackers on the ground and in the air. It was a perfect bunker.

The piles of dead thralls provide no comfort, she wonders if her presence or her mother's would have made any difference. She studies the tracks of what could only have been thousands. The numbers were overwhelming. Nethin'Dawz only hope was flight but they didn't run.

"You shouldn't have killed him," Iune spins with an arrow drawn. A safe distance away, taking cover behind stone ruin stands a middle-aged Drow. Narrow white eyes casually study her poise and weapon. His skin is dark as tar, darker than most Drow, only marred by the white scars creating a sideways T on his face. One slice crosses both cheeks and his nose, while the second cuts through his right eyebrow and down to his cheek. With a shaved head, his eyebrows are his only hair. Otherwise, he wears unremarkable black shirt and trousers. "He was a good sentinel and one of the few guards we have left."

"You should have died with our tribe weapon master," she hisses.

"I did," he lifts his shirt, revealing a raw scar that runs from his left shoulder down to his abdomen. The wound is red, angry, and half-healed. He lowers his shirt and calmly tucks it into his trousers. Iune lowers her bow and releases the tension in the string. "It was a frontal assault simple, stupid, and…successful. The matron mother summoned yours and they marched on us."

"My mother is dead."

A second of quiet reflection is the only grief he reveals, "Then you lead us now, mistress."

She swallows her reservations, "I apologize Alakruen. Your loyalty is unquestionable."

"We're Drow," he corrects her. "No one is that trustworthy."

Grinning she admits, "I would have missed your candor. How did you survive?"

"Zhem owed me and paid with a charm. Just before I died, I healed. We weren't the only ones. Several tribes were annihilated outright, without your mother to consolidate them, they fell one after another. Some contacted us after. They look for survivors, for revenge, or protection from the slaver bands. There's a price on the head of any survivor and slavers aren't not picky."

"Is there anyone else?"

"A few, come and I'll show you," Alekruen motions.

The magnificence of Hammersgate is muted in the shadow of Eartheart but it remains a Dwarven masterpiece. Geometric shapes decorate the sleek stone walls, identical on either side of the steel gate. Thirty feet tall and ten feet thick it is as formidable as its people. Now as she joins the line of travelers leading to the gate, again she finds herself awed by it. For the barest moment it eases her fears. She isn't the only one daunted by it; many of the Lion tribesmen gape wide-eyed and shocked.

The wall isn't the only defense. Ballistae, giant crossbows manned by Dwarves, line the walls with the occasional catapult. More griffonriders circle overhead while occasionally landing on the wall to perch. The number grows as she waits in line. Hard-eyed Dwarves study the travelers and many more throw curious looks at Thullard.

"Next!" A Dwarf sentry calls her as he waves a wagon through. The travelers move sluggishly as the sentries search every inch of the wagons, their occupants, and their paperwork. Even as the wagons pass through, their guards remain behind, watching the tribesmen cautiously.

The routine continues until she stands at the threshold of the gate. The guard asks her, "Anything to declare lass? Name and Tribe?"

"Kanti of the Hyena Tribe."

"There is no Hyena Tribe, they joined the Lions," the sentry replies mechanically.

"Make a mark and put it in the report," Thullard tells him.

"More bloody paperwork!"

The Lion forerunners walk around the corner along with another Dwarf, armored from head to toe. He carries his helmet cradled in his arm and talks amicably. One Lion points at her and frowns when he notices Thullard. Kanti's throat tightens and the Lion Tribesmen chuckle. Panic tightens her throat and leaves her mouth dry. Her stomach sinks and she tightens her grip on her spear.

Thullard places a hand on her wrist, causing her to jump, "Easy….Gate captain?"

The armored Dwarf jogs over to Thullard and asks, "Captain?"

"These Lions violated Eartheart's neutrality and assaulted this young woman."

"What?" The forerunners blink.

"Is that right?" The Gate Captain looks at the Lion tribesmen. "Is that true?"

"No! She cast spells on our riders, she's a criminal wanted by our chieftain."

Kanti remembers she cast the first spell that initiated the conflict and curses her luck.

"Regardless, unless you can prove that she is a danger to Eartheart," the Gate Captain informs them. "She is free to come and go as she wishes."

"This is an outrage!" The Tribesman sputters. "The Lion Tribe comes to you in good faith and you insult us. We will not stand for such treatment!"

"Careful lad," the Gate Captain warns. "I'm sorry you aren't getting what you want but these are the rules. It could very well be the other way; with Hyena's claiming one of the Lions are criminals. We can't just hand someone over someone without any evidence or proof."

"Are we good here Captain?" Thullard asks.

"If they've searched you," he looks at the guards and they nod after checking her saddlebags. "Aye, enjoy your stay in Hammersgate lass."

"Found yourself a pet Captain?" A Griffonrider yells at Thullard. Kanti's face grows hot with her anger. She glares at the rider.

"Thanks for volunteering ensign," Thullard yells back. "You can clean the latrines for the rest of the month. Now come and take my Griffon, you can begin by brushing her and removing her barding and saddle."

"Aww-ahh come on captain, it was just a joke."

Kanti's lips press into a line when she looks at him. She asks, "What now?"

"That depends on you lass; my suggestion would be finding a good inn. There's a nice place called 'The Dancing Lady' next to the Sharindlar temple. It welcomes all."

"I don't have much coin."

"It's reasonable and I will put in a good word," he motions her to follow. Kanti is again surprised by the number of people awake at this hour at night. She can't help but stare at the strange creatures and exotic people. There are Dwarves with straw and crimson colored hair. Humans from the north tower over everyone, like giants. Dwarven merchants travel through the crowds with more gold in their beards than she has ever seen. "There's chores you can help with too. If it is not too much to ask, what is it you came to do here?"

Even with the Lion Tribesmen leaving the city, she hesitates to answer. She licks her lips uncomfortably, studying Thullard, finally accepting that he can be trusted.

"I'm here to meet with several of the surviving tribes and the Eagles. My mother intended to align the survivors to oppose the Lions and hopefully with the Eagle Tribe, crush their conquest. Now-now it's up to me."

"Well…" he responds thoughtfully. "That's ambitious. I don't know if I can help-"

"Wilfgard Amplewrought was a traitor and died like a dog!" A Dwarf roars.

"He was a Deep Lord and patriarch!" Another retorts before they smash into each other. They punch and headbutt, bite and scratch, and they're joined by dozens of partisans.

"What the bloody hell?" Thullard focuses on the growing conflict. In moments the Steelshields, part militia part constables try to break up the fight. The sheer number of combatants quickly grows. "We need to get you off the street lass. I don't know what has my people riled up but their fury might turn on an outsider."

They rush the rest of the way to the inn, a vast building mixing wood and stone. Nearby she sees a glorious temple with a massive statue of a Dwarven woman dancing. On a much smaller scale, an identical statue sits in front of the inn. She places her horse in the stables and properly tends to Swiftdancer before heading towards the doors.

"Here we are, the Dancing Lady. She's one of the finest inns of Eartheart and by far the finest in Hammersgate."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Your only choice is banishment Hamezaar."

"Banishment? For what? Defending myself or surviving another assassination attempt?"

"This is no laughing matter," Karrvice messages her temple. "You murdered a High Lord."

"Don't play stupid. Gloomguard's Patriarch witnessed the attack and confession. Besides, I held an ax over him, why would I shoot him with an explosive crossbow bolt?"

"No one trusts Gloomguard; they're assassins and Shar worshipers. Guurne also detailed your provocation of Wilfgurd and impaling a High Lord with a Drow blade."

"So you don't believe him detailing a confession but you believe his statements about my provocation. The truth is the Deep Lords are hearing only what they want to hear, as always. Second, it's an Elvish blade, gracefully curved with a single edge. It's made of steel not adamantine too; it won't falter in sunlight. Third, this weapon is mine through right of victory, much like this ax." Hamezaar pats the battleax on his hip, Wilfgurd's weapon before his death.

"Your abuse of the law undermines it, on top of everything else you have done."

"What have I done?" Hame roars. "I survived an assassination attempt in your citadel. I mourned my lover's death. I brought the Dwarf who ordered her death to justice. This Dwarf confessed to working with the Drow and murdering a citizen of Eartheart."

"A Dwarf helpless beneath his own ax, even a Deep Lord, may say anything to save himself. At best his confession is made under duress if not invalidated by his peril."

"In a matter of hours, I have done more to subvert the Drow's plans than the whole city! Tell me Lady Simmerforge, what have you done for your people lately?!"

Karrvice folds her arms over her breasts and huffs, "I can't help you if you won't let me Deep Lord. Your vanity has brought us to this point not Wilfgurd. You killed him. Your hand might not have delivered the blow but it was your actions that brought it about nevertheless."

"The burden of evidence is on Amplewrought and they're traitors." She places the Elvish blade on the table. "Tell me true Karr, what annoys you more, that I slew him or survived?"

"You don't know what you've done, do you? There are people fighting in the streets."

"Good!" Hame jumps to his feet. "Good! For once they're taking notice! The last century is a disgrace! Our people sleep while our enemies advance!"

"Our people can't fight the Drow head on!" She screams back.

"We can't fight anyone if we keep pretending there's no danger!"

"Our people are turning on each other because their leaders are fighting."

"Our people are fighting because their leaders have done nothing!" Hame retorts. Huffing and puffing, both are breathless from their shouting match. Guards peek in and take positions around the room. Four of them stand behind her and another pair takes positions in the corners behind him. Karrvice takes her seat and Hame does the same. She says, "Wilfgurd's guards have closed gates and won't speak without legal advocates."

"Are you surprised? They're not stupid."

"Wilfgurd's widow is making the rounds to the temples and clans, lamenting the murder of her husband to anyone who will listen."

"Hah! She's slept with more of the nobility than I have, while she was married to him."

"Her husband is dead and you have a lot of enemies. She's doing her best to rally them," Karr makes a calming gesture with her hands. "No matter what has happened between us, I'm trying to help you. I'm here as your friend. I'd hate to see you come to harm."

Hame's eyes narrow; he's alone in the citadel again. It seemed like a good idea, a neutral ground for him to wait out the initial outcry. He could depend on it looking appropriate too, turning himself in to the authorities. No matter what, he thought he could trust Karrvice. Her mother, absolutely not, but he thought Karrvice was forged from sterner stuff.

Hame survived the initial assassination attempt but who is the informant? If he died in the Citadel, Simmerforge would be ashamed and someone would throw themselves in the Great Rift. Honor would be satisfied. Regardless, he'd be out of the way and Wyrmforge would be leaderless. The Gold Dwarves would be left with two great clans, Simmerforge and Gloomguard. As Karr said earlier, no one trusts Gloomguard. The Deep Lords together would not unite even if the former queen seizes control of Eartheart. Simmerforge would win by default…if he died.

Hame looks at the six guards, "My Dwarves have orders if I don't return."

"What?" Karr is unreadable but doesn't look at her guards. "You're being paranoid."

"Am I?" He leans back in his chair, despite the sudden tension in the room. His shoulders tighten and his hands drop to his waist. Instantly every guard reaches for their weapons. Karr's hand shoots out, stopping them before they unsheathe. "You know we have plans if a war came to Eartheart. Your Citadel is on a plateau, a narrow one. My men will undermine the plateau; the weight of the citadel would topple it into the Rift. Someone may survive, it's always possible, but my forces would be waiting."

Karrvice pales and Hame wonders if it's fear or the truth. He can't say, even with all his experience in politics. Honestly, Hamezaar wonders if it has really come to this. Have his people become so treacherous? His survival versus the Drow was a narrow thing; admittedly, he has grown soft as a Deep Lord. He was trapped by his position, unable to truly affect the change his people need. Many years ago he thought the power that came with it would free him to do as needed. Instead he was snared by a hundred more rules and regulations.

"Our people would be devastated," she points out. "We wouldn't stand a chance against House Trun'zoyl'zl."

"That depends on who wins," he replies. She knows the Drow name he learned only a few hours ago. It's possible her informants were better than the Deep Lords. Unlikely but it's possible. "A quick and vicious war could carve away the excess. Our people have become apathetic and soft."

Karrvice's eyes harden and her demeanor changes, her shoulders tense and bunch up. Her eyes slides from him to the Elvish blade then back to him. Her gaze is hollow and unfocused.

"You're right, banishment it is," Hame declares suddenly and she blinks in surprise. "It doesn't matter if I killed Wilfgard; it appears as if I did. Worse, I divided our people, instead of uniting them against the real threat. I will not surrender my position as Deep Lord though. Berund Oozesmasher will take my position in my absence."

Karrvice folds her arms across her chest again. Indignation, anger, and confusion race across her features but she remains silent. Still, she takes it better than Barund, "What?!"

"You should have chosen me, just to piss them off," Yerdan suggests.

"You're bloody welcome. Yerdan you have more important things to do. Berund, you're the only one with the respect and legacy."

"Bah!" Berund shakes his head in frustration. "What are you gonna do my lord?"

"First I'm going to visit the high priestess of Sharindlar."

"Great," Yerdan says bitterly. "My sister isn't cold and you're visiting former lovers."

"I loved your sister Yerdan. I am visiting the priestess because she is one of the best augers in Eartheart. She is also nonpartisan. I need guidance and I wouldn't mind a little advice from the gods." Yerdan apologizes under his breath and Hame pats him on the back reassuringly. "No jests from you or I will make you a deep lord and then you'll be sorry."

"Don't forget about the Drow prisoner my lord," Barund reminds him.

"That's your problem now Barund, you're in charge," Barund sighs aloud and Hame takes pity on him. "Fine, I'll deal with the prisoner."

Wyrmforge's estate is an open-air walled compound surrounded by secondary walls, vassals, and allied clans. Only a single floor below ground level, before the Spellplague Wyrmfort was an equal mixture of fortress and foundry. It was the last stop before products headed to the markets and caravans. Now it is the center of Wyrmforge industry and its heart. Wyrmforge's symbol covers many doors and merchant stalls, while Dragons statues and carvings decorate walls as commonly as defensively placed fortifications.

Beneath this stronghold are the Wyrmforge dungeons, steel reinforced stone gates surrounded by stone and iron bars. The Drow's cell was typical, a steel bench with a bucket in the corner. There is no light within the cell, until the iron door is opened for Hame. The Drow rogue crouches in the corner, predatory eyes watching them as they open the door.

"Greetings," Hame begins.

The Drow studies him, eyeing Hem, "I wasn't expecting civility from you."

"You're not the first person to try to kill me. A century ago Yerdan tried to assassinate my father and I," Hame smiles at his friend. "Now he's captain of my guard."

The Drow laughs bitterly, "I don't think my future is so bright."

"Fate can be fickle. It can shift like the wind in a heartbeat. I'm sure you know but I'm Hamezaar Wyrmforge, who do I have the pleasure to speak with."

"Szordintel Hrrulnn formerly of Bethindaer Tribe."

"Why formerly?"

He hesitates, "They will not welcome my return after this debacle. Even if they did…the Matron Mother will demand I pay for my failure. I'm curious, how'd you survive the arrow?"

Hame smiles, "Before we head into Council meetings, many of us drink potions. They can go for hours, so we drink endurance and charisma mixtures."

"A potion? You endured an arrow to your spine because of a potion." He laughs again.

"I spoke with the female archer and concluded that you were sent to die. Perhaps…you and I have a common enemy."

"And you expect what? That I will join you against my people, _the evil Drow?_ You've listened to far too many tales. Drizzit Do'Urden is a myth."

"I've met him…twice," Szordintel's look is cynical. "I'm serious. After the battle for Mithril Hall we spoke during the celebrations. He's not comfortable in public settings; I think he has social anxiety. The second time was when the great kings and lords of the Dwarves were called together to determine who was worthy of the Wyrmthrone. His friend Bruenor Battlehammer brought him. His presence was worth it just for the greybeard's indignation."

"Even if that is true," Szordintel counters. "I am not him. I will not join some fool crusade against my people for the morality of it. Please don't appeal to my nonexistent scruples."

"I figured I'd appeal to your greed," Szordintel blinks. "This conflict between Dwarf and Drow is going to end one way or another in a decade or so. What's a decade in a Drow's lifetime? I'm offering to pay you, quite well, to help train my soldiers. Drow are quite intelligent and rogues are craftier than most. With your experience and skill, you can give my soldiers an edge. You have nowhere else to go. If you return to your people you will face torture and death. Work with us and you may find that you like the surface and you'll have coin. What say you?"

"How much pay?" Szordintel asks and Hame laughs. They negotiate for a few minutes before they come to an agreement. They shake hands to seal the deal, Szordintel awkward at first but quickly growing comfortable. "If you saw Do'Urden fight, how do I compare?"

"You're not even in the same category lad," Hame assures him. "…and that was a century ago. He will only have improved by now."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The Drow tribes could never touch their domesticated kin on appearances and dress. As Iune looks over the survivors of the House Trun'zoyl'zl's treachery, she notes that the must look like vagrants. They gather in a single room with passages leading east and south. Half of them are wide-eyed and suffering from shock, the other half are rabid. Their eyes narrowed in fury, looking for any threat to vent their anger with.

"What is this place?" Iune asks after she is forced to crawl through a crevice in the wall.

"We don't know for certain," Alakruen doesn't answer until he's through the other side. He holds out a hand to help her up but she ignores it. "It's old, ancient, and archaic. Maybe even primordial. Lorawk thinks it might be ancient Telantiwar, a forge or foundry of some sort."

"We have taken up with _colnbluth_?" The non-Drow name sours her tone.

"You'll see," he glances at the two Drow guards just within the hollow. They give her a flat look for a moment before they resume their duty. On another day, such reckless disregard of her station would result in immediate retribution. Unfortunately she doesn't recognize them or have any clue as to their capabilities. Worse, her recent defeat at Hamezaar's hands has leaves her hesitant. She scowls as she heads into the main room.

Uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, while an Orog studies a fire simmering in what looks like a fountain. The Deep Orc is as foul and ugly as the rest of his kind, muscular and well over six feet tall. Unlike his surface kin, he stands tall, confident even among his betters. Another deviation from surface Orcs, he wears heavy plate that's maintained and oiled. On his hip is a great club, a brutish weapon covered in spikes and knobs. Several throwing axes hang on his hip. He towers over the Drow, utterly unimpressed with what he sees.

She recognizes those gathered but notes that most are vassals, not leading members. The sole exception is the brother and sister at the head of the crowd. "You! This is your fault! If you had not failed, our houses would not have suffered the matron mother's retribution."

"Let us not begin this discussion by diminishing what little respect I have for you. The troops attacked before we reached Eartheart Kaellene. That is why the Matron Mother requested the best but supplied none of her wizards, sorcerers, or priestesses. We were sent to die. The death of our target would have been a bonus, nothing more."

"That's the best justification you could come up with for failing to slay your target?" Her brother scoffs.

"In your case Naellene, Neither justification nor explanation is required for someone so far beneath my notice. Some of you want to flee but consider this. Thousands of slaves died. Hundreds of Drow fell and others fled. We were so close to defeating what's left of the Dwarf infestation, a mere decade in all likelihood. Now who knows what will happen. Our victory is no longer assured. Whether the matron mother is insane or an idiot is beside the point, her self-defeating decisions are an existential threat to Telantiwar and to all Drow."

They didn't clap or cheer; they are not some low born rabble. Many nod in agreement and give her their full attention. That's more than she can expect or hope for after such a disaster. Kaellene refuses to relent, "Your mother led us into this situation and I do not feel comfortable following you. Our sacrilege is at the core of our losses. We must return to the proper ways if we hope to overcome our enemies. As the only remaining priestess, I am the natural choice to lead this endeavor."

Perhaps it is her exhaustion or repeated shocks she has suffered over the course of the day. She snickers. It escapes before she could resist the urge and suppress the sound. Kaellene's eyes widen in fury, her lips peel back with a spell on her lips, "Lloth-ugh!"

Alakruen punches her in the throat. She gags as she grasps her neck, unable to breathe or speak. Her brother reaches for his blades only to have his legs swept by the monk. Iune draws an arrow and levels it on the rest of the Drow. Several of them reach for weapons and freeze in place when they meet her eyes. Iune stares them down one by one until they lower their hands, "Is there anyone else that believes they have a claim to leadership?"

"Oh yeah, you Drow settle things much better than us Orcs," the Orog rumbles. Iune turns and finds the deep Orc behind her. With both hands wrapped around his club, his eyes glances at her but quickly returns to the rest of the Drow. She doesn't feel comfortable with him behind her but the rest of the Drow didn't know that. "Alak hired me, I'm with them."

"Who is this?" She asks.

"This is Lorawk," Alakruen introduces him. "He's a mercenary that offered his services."

"I'm also the only metalworker you have," he adds with a grin.

"Why is he alive? Why is Hamezaar Wyrmforge walking out of my Citadel?"

Karrvice remains still and ignores the urge to rub her forehead, despite the headache forming between her eyes. Calmly she explains, "If I gave that order we would be in a full-fledged civil war. Although undeclared, Gloomguard stands with him, Moradin knows why. More importantly mother, he was not bluffing about undermining the Citadel."

High lady and matriarch Karrivva of the Simmerforge clan, former queen of the Gold Dwarves, waves dismissively. She hisses, "Wyrmforge men are given to grandiose claims,"

"That's what you said when he offered to retake the Gates," she replies evenly. "He retook those gates and decimated the Drow caught between the army and the lower levels."

"I cannot depend on you for the simplest things!" She shrieks. "I'm surrounded by fools! I am the queen! You fail me, just like the wretched council that stripped away my crown!"

Karrvice waits patiently for her rant to wear down, after a few minutes her sputtering ends. The former queen was once beautiful and lively. Now all that remains is the hunched Dwarf, whose flesh has wasted away over the century since the Spellplague.

Karrivva continues as if her outburst never happened, "Much like his namesake and grandfather, Hamezaar is a testament to the clan patriarchs. Every victory, every accomplishment reinforces their belief that we can continue as we have before. It must end. We can no longer endure the divisive and self-destructive nature of the Deep Lords and their archaic structures. Eartheart must unify as it has never before, under a singular authority, without the infighting inherent in the clans. Hamezaar is an obstruction to our ascendance and he must go."

"Well spoken, as always my queen," from behind them a cloaked lord compliments her.

"I did not summon you lord Twiststeel!" Karrivva snarls.

"No, you did not my queen," Sullun Twiststeel has always made Karrvice's skin crawl. "I came as soon as I heard about the attempt on High Lord Wyrmforge and the subsequent death of High Lord Amplewrought. How do you want me to work this? Do you want me to suppress the story about the Drow and emphasis Wyrmforge's murder of Amplewrought?"

"No, I want you to emphasis the fight in the citadel. I want your men to spread two additional stories along with the first, one where Hamezaar fought off an assassination attempt from within his own ranks and another where a Deep Lord challenged him to single combat."

"The people won't know what to believe," Karrvice argues.

"So they won't believe anything," Karrivva shares a smile with Twiststeel. "We cannot have Deep Lords slaying each other any more than we can have people thinking the Citadel is less than impenetrable. In a day or two another Lord will take a commoner as her husband or some Patriarch will get caught with a foreign mistress. Gossip will put this scandal to rest as it has every other one. Karrvice, prepare the mirror, I must speak with…_her._"

"Again!"

"Matron Mother," the priestess appeals to her. "We've tried three times!"

"For my son, we will try a hundred more if the hundredth is successful," Matron Mother Jesthflett Trun'zoyl'zl would never cry. Such emotions are for slaves and the weak. Her lovely face contorts angrily, with rings around her eyes and dilated pupils. Her white dress is stained with blood, now drying brown and crusty.

Her son stares lifeless from the altar she's placed both halves of him on. The largest altar in Telantiwar and her personal shrine to Lloth, it is a focal point of her goddess' power and hums with it. The Matron Mother begins by chanting under her breath as the spell gains power. She motions off to her side and her Bugbear soldiers drag another slave forward. She studies the slave before she announces, "We've tried slaves before, and they weren't enough."

The Bugbears tense but remain still as she draws her sacrificial dagger. Jesthflett moves around the table towards them. The priestess assisting her chuckles in sadistic delight, following a step behind as she studies the Bugbears to suggest the best one. Then the Matron Mother drives her dagger into the priestess' heart. The woman screams as the force of the dagger pushes her onto the Altar. Jesthflett twists the blade, "No one argues with me!"

The priestess trembles with agony until she finally dies. The room throbs with holy power, the Bugbears cowering beneath it. The Matron Mother holds her arms open as she turns to the towering statue of the Spider Queen, "Great and exalted Lloth, I beseech you. Raise my fallen son so that we can continue your glorious work together."

Power erupts in all directions throwing her back. The Bugbears are blasted against the walls and sag to the floor. Above the altar floats a half spider and half Drow woman, a handmaiden of Lloth. Fangs protrude from her lips that drip with venom. The greenish ichor trickles upon the altar, disintegrating stone and flesh alike, hissing and popping as they melt.

"Your son is unworthy of HER attention," the handmaiden's voice is soft and light but thunders through the room. The floor shakes and the air vibrates, warping before her. "Your son was never an adherent or pious. He was riddled with weakness and infected with compassion. His death was a result of your weakness, your inability to enforce your will upon your house."

"I have served faithfully for centuries."

"As required, as is your responsibility, not a choice you're allowed to make."

"I have imposed my will upon thousands of Drow and tens of thousands of slaves. I have raised Telantiwar from the ashes of dead Dwarves and crushed a center of worship for HER enemies. Underhome was a bastion of Moradin, now it is HER domain."

"Your accomplishments are many," the Handmaiden admits. "Still, let's not forget your failings, and your loss of Undrek'Thoz to _males_. On top of that, you did not defeat Underhome. You happened upon them opportunistically after the Spellplague left them weak. You capitalized on their weakness, which is glorious, but you have failed to complete their destruction. You treachery was based on fear, not sound strategic judgment. You've weakened your position and the other Drow consider you erratic. All of which is beside the point, your son will not be raised, as he is unworthy of HER attention."

"I will not be denied!" Jesthflett hisses.

"You DARE!" The Handmaiden roars, hurtling Jesthflett back. She smashes into the wall, several feet above the ground, and remains pressed there by an unseen force. The Handmaiden's spider legs snatches up both bodies and she disappears in a vortex of darkness.

"No! No!" Jesthflett howls. "NOOOOoooo!"

She huffs and puffs for some time, staring at the altar. Distantly she is aware of the stirring Bugbears, as they creep fearfully from the room. For a long time she is alone. Then a knock comes at the door and she screams, "What?!"

"The _Dwarf_ requests you Matron Mother."

Her lips recede in a mixture of fury and disgust. She rises to her feet and moves to her personal chambers to change her clothes. She makes certain she is immaculate before she travels to another chamber and steps before a mirror. An ancient and hunched Dwarf waits for her.

"Feeling petty Matron Mother?" Karrivva asks. The Dwarf dares to smirk at her. "You kept me waiting all this time after such an utter and complete failure."

"Silence you wretched fool!" Jesthflett snarls in a rage, initially thinking the Dwarf had knowledge of her son. Then she realizes Karrivva is referring to the assassination attempt. She takes control of herself. "My assassins slew all save one of your targets."

"He was the only target and you know that. The rest were convenient. I told you how capable he was. Yet for some reason you chose to ignore it. Frankly, I am filled with doubt at your ability to fulfill your end of this bargain. This agreement is becoming more and more one-sided. Your inability to control your raiders is giving me serious reservations."

"I realize that you are ancient and infirmed," Jesthflett replies coldly. "I will forgive your failing mental faculties as long as they remain rare. I think you need to remember that I can flood your city with assassins and soldiers. Your people will be slaughtered like sheep."

"You couldn't kill a single Dwarf trapped in a room with five of your best," the former Queen retorts. "I'm beginning to wonder if I overestimated your abilities."

Jesthflett simmers as the anger she can barely keep control of bubbles from within her. They stare at each other through the magical mirror until Karrivva relents, "There is a way you can make up for your failure. Hamezaar Wyrmforge has been banished from Eartheart."

_What fool would banish such a weapon from her arsenal?_ Jesthflett keeps her thoughts to herself and suggests, "Naturally you still desire his demise? Very well _Queen_ Karrivva."

She ends the conversation and returns the mirror to nothing more than reflective glass. Her servant asks, "Should I tell our forces to stop the raids?"

"No, tell them to increase them, I want daily attacks. Once we control the night we'll control Eartheart."


End file.
